CIA Rises
by Maelontikus Phutura
Summary: The epic and largely unknown world of CIA of The Dark Knight Rises is explored in this riveting story of love, life, survival, and revenge. This will teach the big guy to shoot a man before crashing his plane. Contains spoilers to "The Dark Knight Rises".
1. Prolouge

It was morning, the sun glistening through the thin cracks in the windows like the stripes of a luminescent zebra, and time for the man to awaken. He felt the smooth embrace of warmth on his cool, crisp face melt away his sleep. The bed sheets were worn by the night, but as soft as the face of a child; flawless. A sweet, familiar smell was in the air. A woman beside him kissed him on the cheek, "Good morning." She whispered. Her breath smelled of expensive mint. The man replied, "Good morning," and began to rise from the bed, stretching his sore muscles. They crackle like the sound of an explosion, as if the sky had fallen and the ground beneath had opened up, spouting the fires of hell.

The warm flowing stream of water from the shower was clean and refreshing, mixing with the soapy body wash creating a fine, white and bubbly layer over his muscular but still small body. As he turned off the shower, the man stood in silence, letting the steamy water drip off his body as he thought to himself why he had taken the job at the agency. Why risk his life for his country? That question had already been answered of course, for he was a war veteran, a hero. His actions in combat back in '91 had earned him several medals, even for flying a plane to safety; but retiring to a desk job soon after was underwhelming. He longed for action, he craved danger.

War had made him what he was today. He saw the evil of war through his own eyes, sickened by the bloodshed that all his peers so joyfully partook in. Sometimes he would meditate, alone in a quiet dark room, without a sound or sight or smell. We all need a place where we can be safe from the rest of the world. We all are afraid of the bigger guy picking on us, but we need to stand up for ourselves. But he just couldn't stand violence. Years of training gave him to strength he needed to defend himself; and a gun at his side was all he needed. The size of a man does not matter; it is the loyalty of his guns that protect him.

His missions within the agency had been of a less exhilarating level. He was known for infiltrating a band of Somalian pirates, bringing down several terrorist organizations such as the Cell Six, and other casual shenanigans. All thanks to him, Gotham City was safe, as well as the rest of the United States. Of course today he wasn't expecting a phone call; neither was he planning on flying. Getting dressed in his best casual clothing, a light gray t-shirt and a light blue polo to be more precise, he went downstairs for his morning coffee, smelling of ripe ground cocoa beans and smooth Half-&-Half.

At the bottom of the stairs he was greeted by a young boy, about 16 years old which was the age at which himself had joined the army, stationed in Lebanon. "Good morning, Grant." He told the boy, patting his back, "I can't talk right now, I'm going to be late; I'll grab my coffee and my jacket. I'll see you in a few days, champ." Grant looked at him, slightly disappointed. "It's okay. I love dad." The man looked back at his son as he shuffled his jacket on, "Love you too son, say bye to mom for me. See ya." He headed out the door quickly, hot coffee in one hand, mosquito spray in the other, and mustering all the courage he could. He quickly boarded his metallic black 2013 Dodge Dart and headed off to work.

This is Agent Wilson, C.I.A. although he prefers you just call him C.I.A. because according to him, he doesn't work for the agency because he IS the agency.


	2. Chapter I: The Assignment

Agent Wilson was half disturbed. As if his whole life was soon to come crashing down, he felt the cool and quick breeze roughly kiss his face; or maybe that was just the wind blowing from outside the speeding car. All was quiet in Langley. The morning was always this way, and it was soothing. But today, as if his nervousness has pushed his introversion to extroversion, he flipped on the radio. Surfing for a good song was hard enough as it was, but all changed when one song came on. A man's soothing melodic voice coupled with a cool guitar riff and vivacious drums singing "For you!" It was beautiful.

Pulling into the garage of the Central Intelligence Agency, Wilson noticed a flyer on one of the dry-painted concrete columns supporting the above floor. It read: _MOST WANTED; Name unknown, usually under the alias of 'Bane'. Known to sport a metallic mask; possibly armed and extremely dangerous._ Wilson observed intently the photograph attached. It was low-resolution, and a large man with a painful expression on his face shielded by a dark metal mask stood in the shadows in the corner. "Pretty big guy." He said. "Sure is," a loud and starling voice from behind shook Wilson, causing him to jump in slight fear, "Big terrorist too, a mercenary." It was a familiar face, a tall black man in a black suit. His eyes were large and dark, making them very noticeable.

Wilson was relieved, "Hey Jack," he told him calmly, "Know anything about this?" Jack walked up closer to him, rubbing his face from his morning, "Yes, this is Bane; wanted by us, the FBI, MI6, and many other agencies; and their offering a big promotion to anyone who can catch him. It seems like a good deal if you ask me." Wilson was confused by this. How would it be easy to catch a man of this reputation? "Why do you say that, Jack?" he asked. Jack gave him a crazed glare, "All athletes are dumb as a doorknob. You know that." Wilson was taken aback by this. 'Size doesn't matter' he thought, but maybe he was a stereotypical jock. He just had to wait and see. That is if he ever had the opportunity to meet the guy.

The boss's office was spacey and fresh, just like the kind of an office a typical 'horrible boss' would occupy. Ironically, Wilson's boss was quite nice. David, Director of the C.I.A. was always fond of Agent Wilson, probably because of his outstanding performance. "Boss, I saw the flyer outside in the parking lot. I thought I could investigate the Bane case." David was quick to stop him, "I'm sorry, but something else came up. You have to go to Uzbekistan." Wilson was slightly disappointed, but a trip to the other side of the world was fine in order to get him out of the house for a while. "I can do that sir, but may I ask what my assignment is?" David seemed confused, "Of course, why wouldn't I tell you?" Wilson replied with a smirk, "Remember when you sent me over to Grenada without any forehand plans or orders? That sent me on a wild goose chase to find them."

Yes, they shared many laughs; no better friendship that an agent can have than with his boss. David continued, "Your mission: escort Dr. Leonid Pavel back here. We hear that someone's been trying to grab him in order to use his expertise in nuclear engineering and we have yet to know who and why." Wilson was slightly shocked, knowing that the safety of millions of lives were now in his hands. He hesitated at first, "Yes sir. I'll get it done. Do I leave… today?" David looked at Wilson worriedly, he knew his family would be worried but at the same time knew that they would always wait for him on all his previous missions. "Actually, you leave in the morning. Take the rest of the day off. Shoot some targets; spend time with friends, family." Wilson was assured by this, "Thank you, Dave."


	3. Chapter II: A Day At Work

Wilson was feeling nauseous in his stomach, like a large man was sitting on top of him. Was it his hunger? Or was it because he was about to save his country? His patriotism was unmeasured in the past, so it was likely the latter. But he had not eaten in a while, so it may also have been the former. Wilson slowly jogged his way into the cafeteria, where he was greeted by the warm smell of well-seasoned tacos. He felt his stomach rumble in delight, like a calm earthquake on the beaches of Tijuana. The cafeteria was empty, and thus the floor and the tables were quite clean. Without any line to wait in, he made his way to the front of the so-called bar. The salty whiff of nacho cheese that rose like steam from a watered fire stung his eyes. "One taco, please, and hold the tomatoes," he told the woman behind the counter, "And some guacamole on the side."

After lunch, Wilson was full. That scrumptious taco made him hungry for something a little more refined now. It was, of course, gunplay. He had practiced every day since his initial employment; and by now he was an expert shooter. He could aim, fire, and hit his target a mile or so away. Arguably, he could even shoot God if he had to. Being an atheist, he pushed that one aside. He aimed his Heckler & Koch USP Compact pistol with key precision at his target. He could feel the hot sweat drip from cool forehead as the sound of constant firing from around the room rang in his ears like the crack of thunder. His sweaty finger on the trigger, his eyes squinted, he was ready. He pulled back his index finger like flipping a switch. The bullet burst from his gun, the sound was deafening.

The bullet hit its target; spot on. Right below the right breast the bullet hole tore through the 2-dimensional cardboard and paper dummy. "Loyalty," he said, "And you showed it well." Praising his gun and kissing it. A muffled voice coming from his right sounded out, "So the gun's alive?" His questioning of sanity and logic was expected, but Wilson didn't let the skeptic get the upper hand, "A gun can be more than a firearm, it can be a man's best friend. Always keep your gun at your side, rookie. One day you'll thank me." The man looked from around the corner. He was about 30 or so, his hair was dark and his eyes slightly squinted, "I'm John, John Blake. I work with the GCPD" Wilson walked closer to him and shook his hand, "I'm CIA, call me Wilson if you want," he was slightly confused as to why Blake was here, "So, GCPD? What are you doing here?"

John Blake seemed honored to meet such a legend; he hesitated to answer his question as well, "I come down here to practice, and get in touch with the bigger agency." Wilson was assured, "So D.C. was your choice, isn't it a little far from home?" Blake nodded and smiled, knowing he'd ask that sooner or later, "Yeah, well it's nicer than Gotham. Even though it's been quite calm since, well, you know." Wilson nodded as well, "Dent. Yeah, he was a great guy. I've been to Gotham now and again, but not very long visits. It's okay." They both shared a brief chuckle; it was all good in their books. "Well I'll see you 'round." Blake said. They shook hands once again, "Have a good day. Don't be a hothead now." Wilson said jokingly. Blake laughed, "I can't promise that now!" They parted, not knowing that they both would be part of something bigger to come.

The day at work was over. Wilson headed down the cold, empty garage to his car. The handle was cold to the touch, prompting his brain to back off at first. After making his way down the driveway and down Sunset Hills Road, Wilson was beaten tired. His bones were aching from the workouts, the target practice, the walking, and the stress. It was time to hit the hay and he knew well. The house was empty as it seemed, not a light was on. Wilson started to worry as the lights were always on when he got home at this time (it was 7:30 of course). Cautiously, he grabbed the doorknob, turned it carefully, and proceeded inside. "Maybe they just went to sleep early." He thought to himself. The room was pitch black, not a sight or sound around. He panned his eyes across the room, seeing dark figures dance through the night, and then he turned on the lights.


	4. Chapter III: Adeline

"Surprise!" a crowd of friends cheered as the lights and patterns of the people and various objects in the room burst into existence like an explosion of color. He was astounded, shocked, and glad. But mostly he was tired, "Hey. What's this all about?" he asked anyone. Several voices shouted in unison, "Your promotion!" He was surprised at first, but accepted that his close friends knew what he was up to. "Well, I'm really exhausted. Who wants a drink?" At this the crowd cheered. The rising level of dopamine in the room stirred up quite a party. Drinking games, separate conversations, sports at the mini-bar and all kinds of fun for friends. Yes, Wilson had a good life, friends, family, and a great career ahead of him. His values had earned him a good reputation, his morals were well founded and his superiors adored him for his sheer conviction. Things were looking up.

"Hey." Wilson heard a familiar voice from behind, it was Adeline. Wilson and Adeline were married for as long as Grant, their first child, was alive. Adeline was a captain who was tasked in training young soldiers to fight in Lebanon back in 1984, coincidently where Wilson had lied about his age to join! The two quickly fell in love after she saw how able-bodied and willing he was to fight, and married soon after. They had three children: Grant, Joseph, and Rose; wonderful kids. After Joseph's birth they moved to D.C. and Wilson took a simple desk job at the Central Intelligence Agency, but after seeing his work John, the then-Director, made him a field agent. It was a good job and it paid for the house, the car and the kids' needs. She may have been alone with them whenever Wilson was out on a mission, but she never was. Their own families never met as they were dead by the time they met, which is much of the reason why Wilson joined the military at a young age.

"The kids are asleep. So, how was work?" Adeline said. Wilson thought for a few seconds, being this tired really makes you work to get yourself together, even to think, "Good. But, there's something I have to tell you." Adeline was slightly worried, she'd hear him say these words before, but something in his eyes made her especially cautious, "Oh, what is it?" Wilson looked over to her, and smiled, almost ironically, "I didn't get the promotion. But…" Adeline looked disappointed, as she should've been, but assuring and warm at the same time, "It's okay, there's always next time. Let's just enjoy ourselves for once." Wilson knew he had to tell her the rest of it eventually, but he wanted the same: peace. It was a long day after all, and almost the weekend, so Wilson decided to head to bed, "Well, I'm done in. I'm gonna hit the hay." Adeline smiled, "Okay, see you tomorrow." Wilson started off to the stairwell, but stopped midway, "Actually, there's something I need to tell you."

The two made their way into the bedroom, closing the door behind them. The sound of calm music and people laughing was slightly muffled. Wilson looked at his wife and with a deep breath, began to speak, "I have to go to Uzbekistan tomorrow. I have to escort some nuclear physicist back here because apparently some guys want to grab him." Adeline's worries were becoming all the more real, she knew what this meant, she knew that the lives of millions were in her husband's hands alone. Without trying to sound hysterical or scared she dared not to question the heavy details, "Tomorrow? Why tomorrow?" Wilson sat on the end of the bed, sighing quietly. Thirty seconds passed, and he spoke as if he were falling asleep and woke back up, "Tomorrow… well, I have to get on the plane, it's halfway across the globe, and he really needs our protection if it's… tomorrow." His jumbled speech was a sure sign of his nervousness, or maybe just his exhaustion again, "I… I need to sleep. Go have a good time, well take in the morning… if you want."

It was several hours later; the lights were out, everything was quiet. It was so quiet that you could almost hear your own ears make noise, but the muffled screeching of rubber tires against the solid asphalt road was all too distracting. Wilson was fast asleep, the previous day was too average, and the next would be too… above average. Yes, it would be a big day, for Wilson at least. Maybe it would be his best job, maybe Bane will be there; that'll be the day. It was only a matter of time, time ticking away like the moments of life. The night grows darkest just before the dawn, they say, and of course: the dawn is coming.


	5. Chapter IV: Leaving Home Behind

The meeting room was full, packed with blank faces upon stiff bodies. Not one soul breathed, it was silent. Wilson sat in his seat, fiddling with his fingers and thinking about the last day or two. All silence was broken as Dave walked into the room, "Okay, listen everyone, please direct your attention towards the projector." He pulled out a small black remote from the drawer by his seat and proceeded to turn on the projector. The display was of a slightly dark-toned man with thick gray hair posed for a mug shot. Beneath was a sequence of numbers and letters, probably the photo's serial number. Dave then began to speak again, "Dr. Leonid Pavel, a nuclear physicist who headed a Russian nuclear facility in the Chelyabinsk Region, has recently disappeared from the area and reappeared somewhere in Uzbekistan, where a Georgian citizen claimed to have been in contact with Dr. Pavel and had given permission for him to be granted asylum in the U.S. We have not been able to make contact since."

He spoke in monotone, that and the seriousness of the manner made his demeanor seem bored and tired. He noticed people in the room starting to dose off, prompting him to look up or to pause in order to get them to listen again. He continued with a gruff tone, "Given his expertise in nuclear fuel cycle technology and reactor designs, we have reason to believe that he is being sought-after by local militants, thus explaining his sudden disappearance. With all this in mind, I have ordered that an operative shall carry out a search and extract operation as soon as possible. Operation Early Bird is now in effect. As you know, Operative FO439 has been given tactical command of this operation. I will discuss the details with Agent Wilson alone, at ease." Everyone left the room quickly and quietly, leaving Dave and Wilson alone, all was silent once again. Wilson got up from his seat and walked around the corner to his boss, "Details; let's hear them." Dave gave Wilson a puzzled look and began to chuckle softly, "Details. Well, your team will consist of a pilot, co-pilot, and five armed men; nothing too fancy." Wilson was slightly mystified, "Nothing to fancy? What do you mean by that exactly?"

It was a finely waxed, gray South African EMB-110, registration number ZS-NVB. She wasn't much to look at, but she had a magnetic feel to her that made the experience all the more special. Dave then handed Wilson a silver briefcase, "This will be the reward for the militants' cooperation. Hand it to their leader, whoever they may be." Dave paused for a few seconds, staring back and forth between Wilson and the plane as if it were the last time they would see each other, or if he had something quite immense to hide. Despite this, Wilson kept to himself, nodded to his boss, and boarded the plane, but on the way in he turned to Dave and yelled as loud as he could over the sound of the twin engines roaring, "It's only a search and extract, nothing to worry about!" His confidence was sure and his courage was right. The roar of the engines got louder and faster every second, the artificial wind generated from the turbines was picking up speed and momentum, and fast. Wilson made his way through the plane's fuselage, which it seemed had been stripped of some of its seats. Sitting down, Wilson looked out the window, took a deep breath and looked around once more.

Five men dressed in desert camouflage colored Kevlar sat in the seats near him. Three of the men looked oddly similar, as if they were relatives of some sort; they all were white and sported a clean-shaven beard, and one was wearing a cap. Another man, also of Caucasian origin, was present, although he was much younger than the others and had darker hair and a smaller build. The other man was African American and as well wore a light colored cap that made his face stand out even more. All of them were silent; they were just trying to do their job. The pilot and the co-pilot were cooped up in cockpit, flipping at switches. They both wore aviator sunglasses and were aging men, true veterans in their field. But strangely enough, the co-pilot reminded Wilson of Matthew McConaughey. The only thing that mattered was that these men were just as nervous yet hardy as Wilson was. The plane finally lifted into the air and Wilson could feel his heart jump right out of its place and all through his body, and his stomach wasn't doing any better.

The flight was going to be long and the mission short, and yet he didn't familiarize himself with the men around him, Wilson was ready to accept any risk that would plague them next. The plane flew higher off the ground, and the earth beneath got smaller and smaller. All Wilson could see was clouds now.


	6. Chapter V: High Above The World

The continuous, looping roar of the engines didn't particularly bother Wilson until now. He had just woken up, and it was the middle of the night. Maybe the jet lag was getting to him already. The pilot had turned on the some of the lights so that the men would be able to see in the darkness. The five soldiers sat in different spots spread around the fuselage. Wilson knew he wasn't going to get any sleep soon, and neither did the other men, so he broke the silence among them "I never got your names". One of the 'triplets' looked at him in contempt, like most men would in the same situation, "I'm Smee. I've worked cases like these a thousand times over, I always do my job, and I make sure they do theirs." Wilson nodded and replied, "Do you speak for them?" The younger man answered him after a few seconds, "No, we can talk. It's just that we… we're not used to speaking with each other. I'm Meiman by the way, Gerry Meiman." He walked in to shake Wilson's hand, and, of course, he was nervous enough to begin with. Wilson could tell even more in the way he shook his hand, "Nice to meet you too. What about the other guys?" Smee stared at Wilson, like he was expecting him to know the answer already, but began to laugh rather than keep quiet. It was a low bellowing chuckle, quite infectious, as every else began to laugh as well.

Wilson was up and awake now, trying to get back to sleep, and in this state he began to grow curious of the situation. What was in the briefcase? Wilson saw the silver briefcase that Dave had handed him back home shimmering from the reflection of the indoor light. He got up slowly as he felt his sore back seemingly sigh with relief as his muscles were torn free from the surprisingly uncomfortable airplane seat. The steel skin of the handle was cold, really cold. It felt like ice touching against his sweaty warm hand. The change in temperature made the pain all the more real. Wilson stumbled back to his seat as he flipped open the case to reveal the lucky militant's prize. A brief click and subtle 'click', and the smell of industrial-grade inner workings flowed from the inside. $3,000,000 in cash; clean, fresh-printed $100 bills. Never has Wilson seen the face of Benjamin Franklin so many times over. How he knew how much money it was? He was ingrained with the intense training that all agents should have. It served him well in the past and it would serve him well now. He closed the briefcase, set it back in its previous spot and sat back down.

Still, Wilson couldn't sleep. Now he had made his way to the cockpit. He didn't make himself familiar with the pilots either, so why not give it a shot? He needed time to kill and they needed to keep awake if they wanted to stay airborne; and alive. He lightly tapped the co-pilot on the shoulder. If he would've tapped the pilot's shoulder, they would risk falling. Wilson asked the co-pilot, just for filler conversation, "How's everything doing?" The co-pilot looked at the pilot and spoke in a mellow voice, "Everything's alright out here, just cruising at 340 kilometers per hour. Clear weather besides a few scattered clouds and right now we're flying over North Africa. We should reach our destination by morning." Wilson could sleep now, if only he could find a way to get tired enough, "Alright. Good night, I'll see you all in the morning." He didn't even bother to ask any tips for falling asleep midair as he was confident enough that he would find a way. He made his way back into the fuselage, grabbed the blanket he used to cover his firearm holster, covered himself, and attempted to drift away.

Again, the last two days were stressful, but rewarding. This was his first international job in a solid four months, and a good chance to see Central Asia. Someone must have gone through a lot of trouble to grab Dr. Pavel. Such a wild goose chase from Chelyabinsk to Uzbekistan would take well over a day's drive. Perhaps there was something truly sinister going on. Maybe the lives of millions truly did rest in Wilson and his colleagues' hands alone. Only a god could possibly know what was to come next, and since Wilson was Atheist, he didn't take this theory to liking. The once annoying roar of the engines now became soothing to Wilson's ears. The buzzing was like a warm yet cool breeze through and through his soul. Slowly but surely, Wilson felt his consciousness slip away. He felt weaker, more exhausted; quite like after a normal day at work. And now his eyes were closed, his body numb. Wilson could finally control his sleep; and he was high above the world.


	7. Chapter VI: Fall

It was morning. The blinding light of the sun shined down on Wilson's cold, numb face. He was exasperated by it of course; he had been sleeping a good seven-and-a-half hours. Wilson hesitated to get up, lying in his still cold seat for a while in order to get his bearings. With all his strength, he lifted himself and stretched his sore muscles. This all seemed too familiar to him; it had basically become his mantra in the morning. He looked around the fuselage and saw that it was empty. The pilot and co-pilot were still in the cockpit, reading magazines, maps, and drinking whiskey, or perhaps brandy, from a small silver canteen. "Where are the others, out getting the doctor?" Wilson asked them, the co-pilot looked and answered quickly, "Outside, but waiting for you. Better be heading out too." Wilson silently nodded in thanks, and turned his attention to the pilot in slight wonder, "You don't seem to talk much, why's that?" The pilot looked at him and smiled, obviously he knew what he meant, "No story to tell. Been a pilot most of my life, and it's served me well." He smiled and happily went back to work. The inception of the real 'job' was about to begin.

Wilson noticed that the door out was open, which would explain the calm draft, and slowly made his way out. Making sure not to trip, Wilson carefully walked down the cold metallic stairway to the ground, his eyes keenly adjusting to the brightness. All around him was farmland, as far as the eye could see. It was not as cold as it looked however, he could've sworn it would be seeing how they were only one other country away from bordering Russia. Beside the endless farmland and rolling hills, Wilson could smell something burning. Behind the plane were two rectangular buildings, both with triangular roofs. It could easily have been the airport, since they were smack-dab on the runway. Alongside the buildings were piles of burnt wood; still being consumed by fire. At first, Wilson assumed this was to signal help or even Dr. Pavel's arrival party, but under closer inspection he found that behind him was an entire war-torn city. The faint sound of artillery fire could be heard if given complete focus and attention. Wilson's concern with his assignment's success had risen; the situation seemed direr than ever before.

Smee and his men stood around the plane with their guns held high, ready for whatever came next. Wilson looked around once more to see if anything was out of place. The first thing out of place was Meiman's absence, "Smee, you don't happen to know what happened to Meiman do you?" He spoke without making full eye-contact with Smee, looking around to see if he could spot him himself, "Gerry's inside prepping the case." Wilson nodded in assurance, "Just making sure everyone and everything is in place." He spoke with a deeper sense of authority than normal, maybe to mask his fear of the situation going awry. _Maybe I'm worrying too much_, he thought to himself, _everything will be okay. All I have to do is act confident and it'll be over soon_. With his newfound confidence Wilson stood firmly in front of the plane with his legs spread out and his hands hooked around his belt, like a cowboy in an old western film; it was quite ridiculous looking. In the back of his mind, Wilson was thinking what Gerry was doing "prepping" the case, it looked fine before. Just then, Meiman began to climb down the stairs and onto the runway, Wilson could hear it so he didn't bother turning around. What was about to happen next would require a bit more attention to detail however.

_Perfect_, Wilson thought as across the vast plains and hills he spotted a metal beast, moving quite fast to say the least. It was of a bluish, and slightly greenish, tone. It was compact but could still hold up to five people comfortably. Wilson couldn't quite make out what kind of build or brand it was until it got close enough; it was a 1985 Mitsubishi Pajero. Wilson turned around to find Meiman handing him the silver briefcase carrying the militants' reward. The handle felt cold as always. The car pulled up to the runway and stopped. Through the window Wilson could vaguely see Dr. Pavel's somewhat nervous face alongside a surprisingly young, bearded Middle-Eastern man. Besides them, two armed men and three captives wearing black sacks over their heads emerged from the vehicle as well. Wilson didn't take notice of them at first and instead handed the reward over to the leader, "Dr. Pavel, I'm CIA." He said with a slight smile. The leader was quick to speak afterward, "He wasn't alone." His voice was rather quiet and not as intimidating as Wilson would otherwise expect. Almost jokingly, Wilson gestured and chuckled, "You don't get to bring friends."

Dr. Pavel's nervousness was in his voice as well, rather than just his body language, "They're not my friends." He stared with worry into Wilson's eyes, as if begging for help as he was taken by Meiman on board. Wilson noticed this, but the leading militant's calming voice distracted him, "Don't worry, no charge for them." Glancing over at the hooded men, Wilson tried to make a connection, but only saw the whole set-up as a joke, "And why would I want them?" The leader spoke slightly louder, as if getting frustrated, "They were trying to grab your prize. They work for the mercenary, _the masked man_." Wilson thought back, and pictured a large man in a metallic mask looming over Dr. Pavel, and as he thought of his alias, he sounded it in wonder, "Bane?" The militant looked at him in a strange way, and just barely saying "Aye," in fright or perhaps "I…" in confusion or a slight nerve. Before he could figure out which was so, he excitedly turned his head to the other soldiers as said "Get 'em on board, I'll call it in." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cellphone. Before dialing anything, he looked up at the militant and signaled him to come in closer for a talk.

At first he seemed calm, but then became tense once more, like he was in a hurry. "How'd you manage to find these guys? Mister…" Wilson asked quietly. The militant nodded slightly and replied, "Oh, I am Barsad. But times before people have called me Chivin." Wilson nodded and asked again, "Okay, Chivin, Barsad, whatever, where'd you find these men?" Barsad looked over to the plane as if inspecting the men he handed over, and reluctantly replied, "They ambushed us on our way here. Our fight was brutal, but our reward was well received. We captured what was left of them. They nearly put us in our graves to say the least." Wilson's confidence was making it all the better for himself, "Good, good. Oh, and good luck on fighting this… revolution here. Stay loyal to your people and don't ever give up." Perhaps it was a little too much, giving advice to a hardy military man born into a culture known for its endless war and violence. Barsad gave Wilson a nod and walked quietly but quickly back to his vehicle, signaling his men in a language Wilson did not understand. He then proceeded to dial his superiors on the cellphone in his hand.

The phone rang for several seconds, and in that time the militants drove off on the beaten dirt road into the grassy horizon. An agamous voice came from the other end, "Central Intelligence Agency, responding to Agent –" the signal was beginning to cut off, perhaps the idea of field agents having all the luxury the agency could provide was not as realistic as he had previously thought, "Please provide a full status on your current assignment if it has already been completed. As you are traveling by air, please file a respectable flight plan." Wilson quickly but calmly recalled, "The search and extraction has proven successful. The reward was given, and the subject has been taken. But there has been a mix up here; the militants handed over three men who supposedly work for Bane." The voice stopped for a second and sounded once more, "The flight plan has just been filed, sir, but only one of the hostages may make the trip." Wilson was slightly upset by this, "Only one? I have three informants here, the more I can squeeze out, the better." The agent on the other line was losing patience, "It's going to be you, your men, the target, but only one captive. So figure out what to do with two of them. Will that be all?" Wilson agreed reluctantly, "Fine. Let's file that."

As Wilson was about to board, he remembered something important, "Wait a little more, will you? I have to take another call." He assured the others that this wouldn't take very long. He dialed another number onto the phone. After a while of buzzing tones, it went straight to voicemail: _Hi, this is Adeline Wilson, please leave a message and we'll try to get back to you, bye-bye._ It was followed by the generic and boring toned woman's voice that tells you to leave a message after the tone. As the high-pitched beep sounded, Wilson began recording, "Hey, I just got the operation done with. Everything's going fine, and we might even get some information on Bane's whereabouts. I just wanted to see how everything's going, but I might as well tell you that… I'm good, and I'll be home at midnight and… I hope to see you soon. I'm thinking of probably trying to get a post, no more field work. I love you… all of you. Bye-bye." Hanging up the cellphone, Wilson began to board the plane. Again, Wilson would never be able to predict what was about to happen.

Dr. Pavel was more nervous than he needed to be. Wilson checked on the pilots, "Fly low." The pilots may not have understood what he meant, but they followed his orders anyway. Making his way back to the fuselage, Wilson noticed that the armed men had brought the captives to the center and pinned them down. Finally, he checked on the doctor. He seemed slightly less worried as before, maybe the protection of the Agency had finally gotten to him, "Alright doctor? Do you need anything?" The doctor looked up at him with a slight whimper in his voice and curled eyebrows, "Those men, they're not who they say they are," he looked over at the captives and began to speak more softly, "It's a trap, a set-up. Barsad is the one trying to grab me!" Wilson was confused; the 'Chivin Man' was down on the ground, how could _he_ be the bad guy? Wilson looked down, trying to think of something to say, "Doctor, do you have a family?" Pavel replied in a hurry, "Yes, yes: a wife and two children. I miss my family so, and I'll do anything to get back to them! Please, promise me that when this is over you'll come back for them! Just… don't trust these men!"

Wilson looked closely at the doctor and nodded gently, "I promise. When this is over, I will get your family to America." Wilson proceeded over to the captives, and in a storm of confusion and perhaps vanity, and most definitely some sense of tragic hubris, he began to lose focus. _What about Bane? I could really use the 411 in this situation. Catching the big guy would put quite the feather in my cap, or fedora as I should say. _He thought to himself extensively, yet not aloud. He began to interrogate one of the hooded men as the armed forces loomed intimidatingly above him, "What the hell are you doing in the middle of my operation?" he whispered into his ear while grabbing his face with full force. The man remained silent, "Fine…" He continued to grab the man's covered face, slightly shook it, and stood up as he shouted over the engines' roaring, "The flight plan I just filed with the agency lists me, my men, Dr. Pavel here, but only one of you!" He pulled out his trusty Heckler & Koch USP Compact pistol and waved it around, signaling his men to open the cargo door. As the door opened, a sudden and cold burst of energetic air filled the plane and caused quite a loud ruckus.

"First one to talk gets to stay on my aircraft!" Wilson yelled as loud as he could in order to be heard, otherwise his voice would be muffled and inaudible. He again signaled his men. Dragging one of the captives to the foot of the door, the capped man could feel the strong gusts nearly grab onto his hat and take it on a trip. The man struggled to keep the prisoner in his grasp as he felt his hands slipping. Wilson shoved himself into the tight area between the two opposites and aimed the pistol right at the hooded man's face, "Who paid you to grab Dr. Pavel!" he yelled as loud as he could, although the hooded man couldn't tell if he actually said "paid" or "framed". With no response, Wilson fired his weapon into the air, expecting the other two captives to believe their comrade dead; a faux execution if you will. The shot's piercing volume was cancelled out by the quick wind. "He didn't fly so good! Who wants to try next?" His speech would hopefully help in his plan, but it was too… rushed to make it even slightly believable to the trained ear. The man in the cap brought the next captive to the edge, "Tell me about Bane! Why does he wear the mask?" Wilson yelled manically and cocking his gun to add effect. Without response Wilson continued, "Lot a loyalty for a hired gun!"

Just then, a metallic, deep, and amplified voice sounded from behind, it was indeed the final captive, and the largest of the three, "Or perhaps he's wondering why someone would shoot a man, before throwing him out of a plane!" Wilson turned around in a bit of astonishment as the military men brought the other captive forward and closed the door behind them. Wilson attempted to regain balance as the plane bounced back and forth. "Wise guy, huh? Well…" Not exactly signaling his men again, he pointed at the large, muscular man. His muscles were quite prominent and showed well underneath the tight black shirt, "At least you can talk. Who are you?" The mysterious voice spoke once more, "We… we are nothing. We are the dirt beneath your feet, the shadows in the darkness, the unseen force that has always lied right under your noses. It doesn't matter _who_ we are, what matters is our plan." Wilson was mystified. Kneeling down, he began to lift the black bag from the prisoner's head, what was underneath truly shocked him.

Upon the man's bald head was a dark skull-like mask, a breathing apparatus of some sort by the looks of it, metal tubes made to look like teeth. The man's eyes were even more piercing, dark and full of life, yet deadly. This was Bane himself, the masked man in the flesh. Wilson's astonishment then got the best of him as he stared into those hypnotic dark eyes. What was once slight hubris was now pride and vanity, for his work and his actions. With this in mind, Wilson only questioned Bane from this moment onward, "If I pull that off will you die?" he asked, referring to the mask. Bane didn't seem to be in the mood for questions, but as his time wasn't thinning as it seemed, he gave in, "It would be extremely painful." Wilson was quick to rebut this claim, as he saw Bane as simply a stereotype rather than the strategist he was, "You're a big guy." Bane's response was nearly priceless, "For you." Wilson was taken aback by this. If he was referring to their comparative sizes, it was quite faulty as they both were approximately 5'9". Wilson continued his little 'quiz', clearly mocking Bane at this point, "Was getting caught part of your plan?" Bane didn't see Wilson as a threat and so he refused to fall victim to a petty insult, "Of course!"

Bane began to explain his reasoning for his remarks, "It was all about catching up to… him." Bane nodded his head towards Dr. Pavel's direction, Wilson turned to that direction to clarify this, seeing the doctor's worried face, "Dr. Pavel refused our offer in favor of yours. We had to find out what he told you." The doctor hysterically shook his hands and shouted, "Nothing! I said nothing!" Bane turned his head slowly towards the doctor with his eyes wide open, most likely prompting him to be quiet. "Why not just ask him? Why go through the trouble of grabbing him?" Wilson questioned Bane's seemingly moronic plan. What caused so many people to build up a prestige to this man? Was it merely fear? Bane answered vaguely, "He would not have told us. It would require such an inside extraction." Wilson tried piecing Bane's strange plan together, "You have… methods…" Bane looked at Wilson in shame, "I'll need him healthy. But you don't present such a problem, which is why you are useless in our plan. But I give you thanks for taking me hostage." Wilson still focused himself on his own task, not taking into account Bane's utter menace. He began to laugh calmly.

Taunting Bane once more, Wilson made his pride audible, "Well congratulations, you got yourself caught!" The plane began to shake; the rattling turbulence grew ever more unsettling. Meiman looked out the window, spotting a much larger plane nearby, "Sir!" Without account of his warning, Wilson proceeded to mock Bane, yelling louder over the unbearable wind, "Now what's the next step of your master plan?" Bane looked straight into Wilson's eyes, his eyes themselves wide open, as if they were popping out, "Crashing this plane," Four men parachuted from the plane above, dressed in black. They made their way to the agency's plane, two men on each side. Bane yelled as he rose from the floor, breaking his plastic handcuffs, "With no survivors!" Wilson's smile faded to a dreary frown. The windows bursted open, flinging glass all across the inside and outside of the plane. With his men temporarily in the blind, Wilson had no choice but to defend himself against the "big guy". The struggle was brief, Wilson merely dodged Bane's blows. That was until Bane grappled him by the neck and forced his fist into the center of his face. Although it was painful, Wilson was left mostly unharmed.

The shock, however, was still with him. Grabbing his own collar, he attempted to block Bane's strength, build it up, and throw the momentum back at him. This proved only mildly effective. The larger man was as solid as a rock, and it only proved more so, as his stubbornness was even more solid. The armed men, quite stupidly in fact, decided to press a beating onto the hooded captives rather than aid their boss. Sure he had served many years in the military, but against a broken man given years of abuse and violent know-how and strategy, not to mention the ability to focus his entire mind and body onto one task or more at any given point, no matter to consequences, there was no chance in hell he could get through it alive. Perhaps it was the cowardice of these men that made them shrug off a chance to go toe-to-toe with him, or perhaps they were so keenly fixated on keeping the captives, and perhaps it wasn't quite a good idea to take note of Barsad's pleas and bribery. But all regret was too late to take back, what was happening now was real. The pain was real. The fear was real. Death was surely real.

As the plane tilted sideways, Wilson and his men fell through the fuselage and hit the bottom hard. The pilot and co-pilot still didn't take note of the commotion on the other side of the now-closed door. But at this moment, they felt the tilting of the aircraft. The co-pilot yelled out in a sort-of whiny voice "Mayday, mayday!" The two grabbed onto the sides of the consoles, or onto dear life if you prefer, as the tilt became more and more vertical. Equipment such as oxygen masks fell from behind into the front. Facing straight down, they knew that the end was surely near, for them at least. But somewhere deep inside, they knew that Bane's menace would not be short-lived. Millions more would die like they would, no questions asked. Of course being the one sitting in a seat, Dr. Pavel could actually hold on to something without worrying about falling straight to his death. Still he screamed uncontrollably, while the rest just fell silent, with a few screams and shouts here and there. The sudden slam onto the strange material, presumably plastic, caused a painful muscle spasm to shock Wilson's body. Still breathing, he struggled to hold onto the little bit of air he had left.

It didn't help that his men, easily over 200 pound paramilitary men, dropped onto him like ice into a glass. Although, instead of cool and even refreshing, this was painful and uncomfortable. In order to protect himself, Wilson covered his face from the large men surrounding him, toppling over each other. As he looked up, trying to grasp a breath, he saw Bane peering deep into his soul once more. The feeling was all too uncomfortable, and unsettling. Many feelings swept over him: rage, regret, fear, envy for his foe's triumph, and of course loss. In that moment, the man dropped straight down, not into the mass of bodies and blood, but onto another level of the plane; just above the carnage. A second or two passed, and the top of the plane, or the tail if you want to get technical, was blasted off, gone; into the abyss perhaps. The gales swept up pieces of paper and plastic flying around from the break-away, and the black suited men dropped into the seemingly empty fuselage to claim their prize, just as the 'Chivin Man' described. All the armed guards were unconscious at this point, and Wilson was only just barely getting through alive, but at some point the man in the cap was able to aim his firearm straight at Bane, unlucky for him he got out of the way and let his men do the fighting.

The man was shot dead in a second. As Bane made his way to transfer Dr. Pavel's blood into a dead man's body, in order to let the agency think that he had died in the scuffle and let Bane have his way with him, Wilson sneakily slipped on a parachute while Meiman used himself as a human shield in order to protect his boss. Wilson could still hear Bane speaking above him, it was muffled of course. No one would be able to hear anything over the wind coupled with being dropped by a nearly 400 pound man and body-slammed by more large men. All he could come up with was, "The fire rises…" Wilson knew this to be true, a fire was rising and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Millions of people were going to die, all because of him, because of his stupidity, his greed, his vanity, all hubris. Although, he was not a hero, at least not the hero his people needed, but the one they deserved. As a deep memento, Wilson pulled his moderately expensive watch off his wrist and stared at it. As he looked up once more he could see Bane carrying the doctor, taken from his own hands. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry about everything. But I can make it right." Wilson strapped the parachute backpack on tighter, and prepared for the worst. The worst was just about to begin.

…

As he fell miles below, freefalling through the sky; so smooth and calming. Why not die now? Why die for nothing? Reaching behind his backpack, he grabbed a hold of the parachute pull and yanked it as hard as he could. The freefalling state that Wilson was in evolved into a slow and relieving soar through a strange and foreign land. He witnessed the plane crash down into the mountains, into a fiery explosion, and soon followed a rising fire on its own. Wilson finally made land, lost in the mountains and far from home, destined to die alone. He is Agent Slade Wilson, CIA. But you might as well call him CIA.


End file.
